Love-Hate
by CraftyUsername37927
Summary: Zayn is a shy but beautiful, overachieving double major headed to his first year at NYU. By luck of the draw he ends up with a jerk for a roommate. But not just any jerk. A stuck-up, totally insufferable, slobbish, idiotic, drunken, blonde-haired, brown-eyed, ripped, sexy-as-fuck, football playing jerk. Who he hates. With a passion. He does. Really. ZIAM. SLASH. ZaynXLiam. 1D.
1. Prologue: God, I Hope I Get It

**Hey y'all! So I thought I would venture into the world of 1D fan fiction since Zayn is basically sex in skinny jeans. This will be a Ziam fic with eventual explicit M/M content so if that's not your thing then just turn around and go back where you came from. This will be a slower burn fic so don't expect anything hot hot hot just yet. **

**Quick summary: Zayn is a shy but beautiful, overachieving double major headed to his first year at NYU. By luck of the draw he ends up with a jerk for a roommate. But not just any jerk. A stuck-up, totally insufferable, slobbish, idiotic, drunken, blonde-haired, brown-eyed, **_**ripped, sexy-as-fuck, football playing **_**jerk. Right from the start, sparks start to fly. Zayn never knew he could grow to hate someone so much. Never knew someone could ignite every fiber of his being with intense, passionate, fiery rage. But sometimes the lines begin to blur between hate and passion of a not so very different sort. **

**NOTICE: As this is an AU fic, I am hereby letting it be known that I have taken liberties with many details, such as Zayn's tattoos, personality, and family structure/history. So please don't be THAT reader that feels the compulsive need to "correct" me at every turn. I am well aware of what I am doing. **

**Thanks and enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Prologue: God, I Hope I Get It<strong>

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><p>Zayn sighs as he studies himself in the mirror. Today is the big day. The day he leaves home for college. Unlike most kids, he has already been out of high school for two years. He graduated when he was sixteen, covering all his coursework in two and a half years as opposed to the normal four. He spent that extra time working three jobs to help his parents save up enough money to even make college a possibility.<p>

He's made the courageous decision to attend NYU as a double major. In a nerve-wracking application process, he had to first file a Common Application with the university itself. In addition he had to submit a video recording of himself to the Steinhardt School to request admissions to the Bachelor of Music program. Since he planned to specialize in String Studies, he had to record a movement of Bach (for which he had chosen the _Adagio _from his Sonata No. 1 in G Minor) and a movement from a concerto in the standard repertoire (for which he recorded the passionate first movement of Felix Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E Minor, Op. 64).

The wait to hear back was excruciating, but it was almost just as terrifying to find out that he had been called back to an onsite audition. For this audition he had to prepare _two _movements from Bach's unaccompanied sonatas or partitas. _Memorized._ After much deliberation, he finally settled on both the _Largo _and _Allegro assai_ from the Sonata No. 3 in C Major. More stressing yet, he had to perform the first or last movement from a standard Romantic concerto. _Also memorized. _His first instinct was to use the piece he had most recently been working on with his private instructor: Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 35. The first movement approaches 20 minutes long so would be unrealistic for an audition. Which leaves the third and final movement: the virtuosic _Finale: Allegro vivacissimo. _However, this piece lies at the very edge of his capabilities. He could go to New York and pull it off, almost assuring him a place. Or he could choke and humiliate himself in the musical equivalent of a train wreck.

In the end, his tutor didn't give him a choice in the matter. He insisted that Zayn could pull it off if he dedicated himself to succeeding. He had zero doubts. Zayn isn't ashamed to admit that he may have teared up a little during that particular conversation.

And so he was committed. He spent at least six to eight hours a day practicing. He played until his fingers were numb and raw, and then calloused. When he wasn't practicing, he was studying the score. Memorizing every note, every articulation, every tempo and dynamic marking. He spent days contemplating the piece. Discovering new subtleties and nuances with every rehearsal. He researched the history and ideologies of Tchaikovsky and his motivations in composing the work. He listened to dozens of recordings by professional violinists, recognizing and appreciating the differences in interpretations and playing styles. He strove to find a balance between playing what the composer intended and finding room to add his own personal touches. To make the performance his own. The music became so ingrained in his being that his fingers would run through passages in his sleep. He would wake up in the middle of the night with new ideas to mark in the score. Every time he closed his eyes, the endless lines of notes would scroll across his vision. It became an obsession. Never before had he been so dedicated to something in his life. He knew his _dadee _would have been proud.

On the big day, despite shaking like an earthquake and barely able to breathe, Zayn stood before the imposing panel of admissions counselors and performed as if his life depended on it. He nearly collapsed after the final note. A silent tear tracked down his face. Months of work had led up to this moment. And just like that it was all over. He had left everything he had on that lonely and unforgiving stage. It was far from perfect, but also far from the disaster he was convinced it was going to be. As least he thinks it wasn't terrible. He's pretty sure. Ok so maybe it wasn't that great. They're probably laughing to themselves about him. They think he's a joke. He never should have come here. He doesn't belong. He was kidding himself.

The empty space was filled with the harsh echoes of scratching pens as each of the judges scribbled furiously on their audition forms. With each passing second that felt like an eternity, Zayn's confidence dropped further and further until he was sure that he had made a fool of himself. Finally one of the judges simply uttered a solemn "thank you" and they watched silently as Zayn self-consciously shuffled off the stage.

He hurriedly stashed his violin back into his case and practically ran out of the building back to his car. He refused to cry on the drive back to the hotel, no matter how much he wanted to just let it all go. His mom's congratulations died on her tongue when he stormed into the suite, so he knew he must have looked distraught. His resolve crumbled immediately, the dam breaking and the pent-up tears and frustration exploding out of him. As a testament to how great of a mom she is, she never once asked him what happened in the audition, for which he was eternally grateful. She just wrapped him up in a warm embrace and held on tight until his shaking stopped. And then neither of them mentioned the ordeal again.

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><p>The drive back home was light-hearted and familial, but that subtle tension still underlaid their conversations. When they arrived back home in Saranac Lake, the familiar low-key town helped ease Zayn's nerves and quiet his fears. He made his way inside, fended off the curiosity of his little sisters, and locked himself away in his room. He stripped down to his boxers and curled up under his blankets. He did not cry again but he couldn't stop thinking about the audition. He thought about all of the mistakes he made. What he should have done better or differently. What creative decisions he should or should not have made. Hours later he finally drifted off to sleep.<p>

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><p>After that night, he refused to dwell on music school anymore. After all he didn't have all his eggs in one basket. Despite the demands on his time and effort of the audition process, Zayn still had the second major program he had applied for. Music isn't his only passion in life. He loves science. More specifically he has a fervent interest in biology, particularly the physiological and molecular mechanisms that make life possible. He decided to combine these interests with his enthusiasm for helping others by also applying to NYU's prestigious Polytechnic School of Engineering to pursue a Bachelor of Science degree in their Chemical and Biomolecular Engineering program. While he wasn't sure yet where he wanted to take his career, this program would provide a rigorous and thorough foundation for basically any path in the field, from biomedical research to clinical-based programs.<p>

Many people, including his high school counselor, cautioned him against such a double major pursuit. Hell, he thought he was crazy. Either of the programs on their own presents a challenge that many would find insurmountable. Combined they would be practically undoable. The standard four years of undergraduate education would be out of the question. The admissions committee suggested at least six years to complete the two programs, although Zayn is determined to complete them in five to save his mom money. He thinks he can accomplish it by taking most of his general education requirements over the summers.

Of course, now it seems that he will probably only have to worry about the engineering program. If he can even get into that…

Although there is no question that he is academically competitive, regardless of his musical misgivings. He graduated with a 4.0 grade point average and valedictorian of his small high school; received AP credits in biology, calculus, physics, English Literature and Composition, History, and Latin; achieved a score of 43 out of 45 in the International Baccalaureate program which places him in the top 1% of candidates and provided invaluable exposure to multidisciplinary learning and research; surprised even himself by earning perfect SAT scores; and won recognition and a scholarship as a National Merit Finalist. There was a lot of pressure for him to pursue an Ivy League education but he had his heart set on NYU, his father's alma mater. Even if his parents were no longer together. His dad had a lot of issues but that doesn't mean he was ever a bad parent.

It was just a few days after the audition debacle that Zayn received his acceptance letter from the Polytechnic School. In addition, they were offering him a staggering amount of scholarship money that was potentially the only thing making this whole college thing feasible. They had also invited him into the distinguished ranks of the Engineering Honors Program, which would provide him with a superior educational experience by fostering critical thinking and creativity. The program is renowned for its rigorous, interdisciplinary focus and individualized curriculum, molding young students into leaders in their field.

Zayn is so happy that he convinces himself that he doesn't even care about the music program anymore. This is exactly what he has been waiting for. Recognition that all his efforts were worth it. That his sacrifice of a normal adolescence for high academic achievement was not in vain. His career was finally within reach even if he didn't know exactly what that career was going to be yet. He didn't even realize how much weight he had been bearing on his shoulders until most of it finally came crashing down in his footsteps. The path ahead was daunting, to be sure, but he was more confident now than he had ever been before.

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><p>Two weeks later, Zayn was just walking through the front door after one of his shifts at the local library when he immediately sensed something off in the atmosphere. His sisters were staring at him, all wide eyes and sparkling grins. His mom gave him a knowing little smirk and asked how his day had been.<p>

"What's going on?" Zayn asked suspiciously. She enthusiastically ignored him and suggested that he head upstairs to clean up before dinner, winking at him conspiratorially. Zayn furrowed his brow and tried to stare her down, but she simply flicked him on the nose and marched right past his astonished face and back into the kitchen.

For unexplainable reasons, his heart was hammering away in his chest as he cautiously ascended the stairs and crept into his room. A single white envelope was laying on his pillow. He dropped his bag absentmindedly and grabbed the doorframe, suddenly lightheaded.

He wasn't ready for this. But he couldn't resist the temptation either. He stumbled forward and collapsed onto the bed, snatching the letter as if it might try to escape. He stared unseeing at the front of the ominous white rectangle for several moments before the neat, printed label came into focus.

His dread was confirmed. The letter was from the NYU Steinhardt School Department of Music. His fingers unconsciously clenched down, slightly crumpling the envelope. He started to shake. This was too much. He didn't understand. His education was already set with the engineering school. He should not be this freaked out over the contents of this letter. But he was.

Fifteen minutes later he was still poised, motionless, in the same spot, staring down at that infernal paper. His mother discretely peaked in on him once but quickly retreated when he jumped and gazed at her like a deer in the headlights.

There came a point when he could no longer put it off any longer without going insane. So with trembling fingers he carefully unsealed the envelope. He pulled the single sheet of paper out and clumsily unfolded it. His eyes quickly scanned down each line until he reached the end. And then he read it again. And again. And then twice more.

Eventually his mother came back into the room. He looked up at her blankly. Numb.

She raised her eyebrows expectantly. He slowly looked down at the quivering paper in his hands before carefully holding it out to her. He couldn't look at her as she read it, so he stared down at his feet. His eyes jerked back up when she made a small incoherent sound. She had a hand held over her mouth, eyes glistening.

Zayn couldn't stop the way the corner of his mouth quirked up. His mother dropped the paper and let out an embarrassing squeal. She rushed towards him and he jumped up to meet her in a tight hug. Both of them descended into a fit of hysterical giggles and hopped up and down until they ended up in a heap on the floor. When they finally calmed down, Zayn looked over to find his mom with tears flowing freely down her cheeks. She reached over and squeezed his cheek affectionately like she used to do when he was a youngster.

"I..am _so__…__proud_ of you," she said haltingly. Zayn had to swallow back a lump in his throat as incomprehensible warmth welled up inside of him.

"Now," she continued, under control again. "Get ready for dinner. I made something special for you." She pulled herself off the floor and hurried back out the door.

Zayn sighed and crawled over to the discarded letter, reading through it yet again.

Long story short he had been accepted into the music program. The review of his audition had used the words "exceptional", "refreshing", and "unparalleled". They commented on his unique interpretation of Tchaikovsky. Noted the flaws. And yet commended him on a completely unexpected and rare performance. They particularly stressed how much they looked forward to contributing to his development as a musician and to enable him to tap into his full potential that they just barely glimpsed in the audition. Furthermore, based solely on the audition, they are offering to cover the remainder of his tuition expenses left over from his engineering scholarships.

The final paragraph of the letter was the most overwhelming of all. In an unprecedented move, they promised him the second chair spot in the NYU Symphony, the premier ensemble at the university. As a formality, he still had to progress through the ensemble audition process but his place was preemptively guaranteed. They even went so far as to explain to him that while he is skilled and disciplined enough to meet the requirements of concertmaster, they want him to have the chance to work towards that goal while in school and to achieve a more thorough foundation in music theory first. And also to hopefully circumvent potential confrontation with the graduate student currently holding the spot. However, she is completing her PhD this year and so the spot will soon become vacant.

Finally the pieces were falling into place. Everything was coming up Zayn Malik.

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><p>And so here he is, about to embark on life's next big adventure. And all he can think about is how it could be so much better than this.<p>

He had donned a pair of snug black jeans with a white v-neck tee and a washed-out red hoodie. The top edge of a tattoo is peaking out above his tee, so he zips up the sweatshirt to hide it away. No reason to give people something else to talk about when he gets there.

His pitch dark hair is longish and unstyled so it sticks out in a thousand different directions, but he doesn't really care. He had decided to go clean-shaven as opposed to the usual scruffiness he had been sporting lately. He sighs and picks up his glasses, sliding them onto his face. They are a black, horn-rimmed style, trendy in a very geek-chic kinda way. Combined with his slightly unkempt appearance, he sort of resembles a scholarly street punk. Especially if his tats are showing. They are the one way he has found to rebel against his good boy, nerdy stereotype. He spent a ton of time as a teen working for the neighbors to raise money for them. And since he was learning a good work ethic along the way, his parents didn't mind too much as long as he didn't get anything profane or explicit or that he would regret in twenty years.

His mom had always told him that he was "ruggedly handsome" with a "dark and mysterious" air about him, whatever that means. Most of the time he feels like she's just saying that because it's her duty as a mom. And even if it's true, he kind of shoots himself in the foot with how overwhelmingly shy he is. He struggles with simple, everyday social interactions. Mix that with the fact that he spent nearly 100% of his time studying or working and you get a rather pathetic childhood. He had a couple friends, sure, but they were the same kind of motivated, nerdy kids as him. So he never had to sit alone at lunch but he rarely hung out with them outside of school unless they had a class project or something. Plus he had soon left them behind with his accelerated curriculum.

He had never been invited to a party. He had never gone to a school dance. He'd never even been on a date. Not that he would know what to do if he had done any of those things. Especially a date. And especially if it was a girl. He had realized a long time ago that he didn't feel the way about girls that society expected him to. And he certainly had feelings towards boys that deviated from "normal". He had to rein in wandering eyes in the locker room during PE and limited the amount of time he ever spent talking to guys. He's never felt comfortable in his own skin because he feels things that high school culture tells him are wrong. And unnatural. He suspects that's a huge reason that he has such severe social anxieties. And definitely why he inks his skin. For some form of control over his body since he can't control the way he feels.

He runs his eyes over his reflection one last time with a deep sigh and then flicks the bathroom light off. He has one last possession to pack and it's his most valuable. Maybe not in a monetary sense, but in sentimental value it's priceless. He picks the violin up off the bed and runs his fingers reverently down the surface. He still marvels at how much lighter it is than you would expect. The wood is dull and worn, belying the age of the instrument, but Zayn has meticulously maintained it in working order. He had received the violin from his _dadee _when he was just six years old. She could no longer play with any degree of success due to her arthritis. Even she could never have known then how much she would change the course of Zayn's life. He wishes she was still there to see him now…but he isn't going to dwell on that right now.

Some small part of himself almost hopes that college will be different. That he might find people that he can truly call friends. That he doesn't have to hide who he really is. That he could be accepted. That maybe he could even find a boy. A boy who is like him. Who feels the same things as he does. Who's just as…abnormal.

But he knows he's once again fooling himself. That's not the way the world works. And even if it was, he would still be too shy to take advantage of those opportunities. Not that he would have time for any of that stuff anyway, what with being both an engineering and a music major. He should just resign himself now to the fact that he has a lonely, exhausting college career ahead of him. Keep his head down and just focus on his coursework.

Of course there is still the whole roommate situation. The best he can hope for is an intensely unattractive, antisocial boy that doesn't cause any problems and won't make things more awkward than they're already bound to be.

If he only knew…

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><p><strong>Whew….getting started is always the hardest. Hope you enjoyed the setup. Let me know by….you guessed it! Reviewing! WOOOOHOOOOO! YEAH! <strong>

**You know you want to ;)**


	2. Chapter 1: What Is This Feeling?

**Woot woot! Here we go with the first chapter proper. **

**Enter half number two of our dynamic duo.**

**Disclaimer: I unfortunately do not own either of these boys.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: What Is This Feeling?<strong>

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><p>Zayn looks around in awe as they walk down the city streets. Despite living in New York, he had actually only been to the Big Apple a few times. And he had been far too stressed out to enjoy it during his audition day. But today he feels free as a bird and just soaks it all in. The sheer frenetic energy of it all is contagious and has him practically vibrating with barely suppressed enthusiasm.<p>

Through a combination of subway, taxi, and walking they finally make it to 4th Street and head towards the Jeffrey S. Gould Welcome Center. Anywhere else, the imposing concrete building would have towered over everything. But here in NYC it is still dwarfed by many of the buildings around it.

Zayn takes a deep breath and follows his mom through the fancy archway as his sisters cling tightly to his hands. His future awaits inside the maw of the beast.

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><p>After an excruciating hour of minutiae, paperwork, and proffered finger foods they are finally done in the welcome center and can head for his residence hall. Which just so happens to be the brand spanking new Founders Hall, a 26 floor high rise in downtown Manhattan reserved strictly for Freshman. He suspects that his stellar application had a little something to do with that.<p>

And so they begin the trek over to 12th Street.

"Whoa…" Zayn breathes out when he realizes which building is his. Founders Hall is a sleek, ultramodern tower of concrete and glass. It looks like the office building for some major business corporation. There is no way this is actually where he lives. Strangely the courtyard is decorated with the front facade and wrought-iron fence of an old church.

Trying not to look too overwhelmed, Zayn makes his way in to the lobby where there is a line for the check-in tables. Another half hour of paperwork later and he has his keys and ID card and is heading back out to meet his dad. He greets his old man with a high five and then proceeds to open up the back of the truck, instantly unstrapping and pulling his violin case out and hanging it over his shoulder. Then he grabs a couple more random bags and heads back across the courtyard. En route a solid, fast-moving body collides with him sending him sprawling on the pavement and his violin flying into a flower bed.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Zayn snaps without even looking at his assailant. He jumps up and hurries over to rescue his baby, brushing the dirt off and checking for damage. Only then does he realize his vision is blurry, apparently because his glasses had been dislodged.

"Language, Zayn!," his mom admonishes as she hurries over to help with the moving truck.

"Yeah, language, Zany," a mocking, unfamiliar voice jeers.

Zayn jerks his head towards the sound, locking onto the vague outline of a group of four or five people standing and watching him. He then scans the ground in vain for his glasses, already regretting not putting his contacts in.

"Looking for these?" another new, gruffer voice teases.

Zayn homes in on him to see an indistinct black something held out in the air.

"Give them back!" he snaps, on the verge of hyperventilating. This is way too much social interaction all at once. He takes a step towards them and…immediately trips over one of the other bags he dropped and almost falls again.

"_Give them back!"_ the first voice mimics. "God, what a loser."

"Is there a problem here," an official sounding voice asks.

"No, not at all," the tormentor doesn't even miss a beat, all smooth and saccharine sweet. "This kid just lost his glasses."

Without a second's delay his glasses are shoved back into his outstretched palm. He quickly slots them back on his face, sighing in relief as the world comes back into focus.

And _holy fucking shit._

Of _course_ the jerkwad who tackled him is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen in his life. All perfectly gelled blonde hair and deep, chocolatey brown eyes that sparkle in the sunlight. Similarly to the rest of the group, he's wearing basketball shorts and a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off to showcase his sinfully beautiful arms. He's holding a soccer ball, casually tossing it from hand to hand. He has the most perfect tan in the history of UV radiation and fuck if his sculpted biceps aren't positively lickable.

_Oh god, _Zayn thinks to himself. _I did not just think that. I have got to get ahold of myself…_

"Ok well let me know if you need anything," the presumed RA chimes over-cheerfully before scurrying off to help other lost souls.

As soon as she's out of earshot the guys start laughing again.

"What's in there, dorkazoid?" the burly, ogreish looking guy who had taken his glasses pipes up, indicating Zayn's violin case.

Zayn wants to reply with "none of your business" and scoff at his pathetic, immature attempt at name-calling but he knows better. It would just make his life more miserable later to provoke them. And so he chooses to just keep his mouth shut entirely.

By this point, Zayn's parents are walking back with their own loads of stuff so Zayn turns his back on the troublemakers and falls into step beside them. They almost make it through the door when the soccer ball beams Zayn in the back with a loud thud. Zayn freezes but refuses to turn around as his eyes water in a mixture of pain and humiliation. A belated, disingenuous apology floats over from the pack of miscreants and Zayn grits his teeth. His mom looks at him sadly, but she too knows better than to intervene. It would only make the bullying worse.

Zayn squares his shoulders and stalks inside. His room is on the 23rd floor so they head straight for the elevators. He finds the door already unlocked so he pushes his way in.

And lets out a pained groan.

The room is a mess. Apparently whoever his roommate is had already moved in. And it looks like he's been there awhile.

The room is surprisingly spacious. There are wardrobes and loft beds on either side of the room, and two desks side-by-side against the far wall. The desks overlook the city through two large windows.

Overall it would be nice. If there wasn't dirty laundry thrown everywhere. On _both_ sides of the room. And if there weren't stacks of dirty, crusty dishes on the desks. Or empty pizza boxes on the floor.

"Oh my…" his mother comments unhelpfully.

"Typical," is Zayn's only reply.

"This is unacceptable," his dad growls in his usual proud, indignant tone. "We're going to have to have a talk with this kid."

"I'll handle it," Zayn rushes to appease him. The last thing he needs is for people to think he still needs Daddy to solve his problems.

"You sure, hon?" his mom inquires kindly. "I'm sure we can talk to the RA and get this dealt with quickly."

"No!" Zayn snaps a little more harshly than he means to. He turns and smiles softly at her. "It's ok. I'm sure we can work it out ourselves."

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><p>A couple hours and too many elevator trips later and they had managed to haul everything up to the room. Thankfully, the soccer posse had dispersed. There had been no sign of his roommate either.<p>

They splurge on dinner at Del Frisco's to celebrate and then it's time for the goodbyes. There are many tears on his mom's part, much screaming and clinging by Waliyha and Safaa, and dozens of hugs all around before Zayn is finally waving a last farewell as his family sets off down the street towards the subway.

He lets out a massive sigh, exhausted from all the excitement of the day, and heads back up to his room. He puffs his cheeks out exasperatedly as he's reminded of the wreck. His original plan was to just ignore the mess until he can make whatever-his-name-is clean it up, so he sits on his bare mattress. His foot starts tapping agitatedly. He fidgets with his hands. He clicks his tongue. His eyes dart around restlessly. Until finally he can't handle it anymore. He gingerly picks up a discarded tee and drops it on the other guy's bed. Then he grabs another and another until he's collected all the laundry in a pile. Then he gathers up the dishes, hauls them to the bathroom down the hall, and dumps them unceremoniously into a sink. He takes the pizza boxes and other garbage down to the trash room.

Once the room is as clean as he can get it, he puts his clothes away in the wardrobe and dresser. Then he stocks his desk, fastidiously dresses down the bed, and begins decorating. He hangs several posters of his favorite classical composers mixed with ones of human anatomy over his bed. He puts together a replica model of Watson and Crick's DNA double helix to set on his desk. And finally sticks a bunch of musical note decals on his window.

Suddenly he sniffs. And then wrinkles his nose. The room already smells like boy. All stale sweat, spoiled food, and Axe fumes. Zayn digs out a bottle of Febreeze and goes to town on the opposite side of the room, dousing everything in sight. He breathes deeply, giving himself a satisfied smile.

He contemplates practicing some more for his NYU Symphony audition but decides he's too tired, so he grabs his copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ and starts reading for the bazillionth time. He's almost drifted off to sleep when the door bangs open violently. And standing in the doorway is none other than the muscle-bound, chiseled-jaw, I-like-to-tackle-innocent-bystanders-for-no-reason, Greek god.

"Well, well, well…" the intruder purrs dangerously. Zayn tries not to think about how sexy his voice is, as if that boy needs anything else going for him. "If it isn't Zany boy himself."

"You have _got _to be fucking kidding me," Zayn spits out, rolling his eyes and jumping up off the bed to put his book away. This is just perfect. What did he do to ever deserve this? "It's _Zayn_," he adds waspishly.

The boy wonder takes a few steps into the room before freezing and taking a deep breath.

"Why the fuck does it smell like flowery shit in here?" he demands angrily.

"You stink," Zayn replies casually, straightening out the wrinkles in his duvet.

"Excuse me?" Blondie exclaims. "And where the fuck are my dishes?"

"The bathroom."

"Why?"

"Because as long as they're dirty, I don't want to see or smell them."

"You had no right."

"Cry me a river. And then use the tears to wash your nasty clothes," Zayn snaps back, shooting a dirty look at the pile of laundry still tainting the room.

Too late, Zayn realizes the boy is still holding the soccer ball and is cranking his arm back to throw it. He fakes slinging it forward, and Zayn is mortified by the way he can't keep from jumping back and squeezing his eyes shut. The boy lets out a derisive laugh before tossing the ball into the corner and then stripping off his shirt, naturally tossing it in the middle of the floor rather than with the rest of his laundry.

_Oh god, _Zayn laments to himself. _Fuck if he couldn't literally wash his clothes on his own fucking abs…._

Zayn shakes his head to clear the dirty thoughts out of his head and busies himself with organizing his desk and resolutely not staring at the torso on display.

_How can someone be so attractive and yet so utterly repugnant at the same time?_

He hears the jackass snort contemptuously and he can't help but look over at him curiously. Which he instantly regrets since the blonde has also ditched his shorts and is standing there in nothing but a pair of loose, bright red boxer shorts. He is running his eyes haughtily over Zayn's posters with a sneer marring his beautiful face.

"God, you are such a geek," he scoffs, before dragging a towel out of the laundry pile and knocking most of it on the floor in the process. He snags a bag on his way out the door, leaving Zayn steaming in his wake.

"Of all the arrogant, self-important, infuriating assholes_," _Zayn mutters bitterly to himself.

He quickly changes into a pair of plain gray pajama pants and takes off his hoodie, planning to just sleep in his white tee. He neatly folds his jeans and sweatshirt and lays them in his clothes basket. Then he sits down at his desk to journal before bed. He tries to chronicle the important events of his day every night, striving to focus on the positives to help himself remain optimistic. As difficult as that may be on days like today.

He is just adding the finishing touches when the door opens behind him. He takes the avoidance route this time and refuses to turn around.

That is until Blondie calls out, "Yo! Zany boy!"

Zayn whips around in his seat to correct him yet again but barely has time to register the fact that a living, breathing Michelangelo sculpture is standing in his room dripping wet and in a towel before his vision is flooded with crimson and he's smacked in the face with the aforementioned pair of unpleasantly damp boxers.

Zayn is out of his chair and across the room in an instant.

"What the hell is your problem?" he yells. Without thinking it through he raises his arms and shoves the brute. Well attempts to shove really. It was about like trying to shove a brick wall for all the good it does. The larger male laughs in his face and easily knocks Zayn over onto his bed.

"Stop embarrassing yourself," he taunts.

"Dickwad," Zayn snaps back before he can stop himself from being so immature.

"It's Liam, actually," the blonde replies cooly.

So the pretty-faced devil has a name. And of course it's a sexy name. Life is so not fair.

Zayn immediately turns away and holds out a hand to block the view when Liam drops the towel and tosses it over onto Zayn's desk. He storms over, determined not to ogle the naked boy, and snatches the wet towel, hurling it over his shoulder back at him.

"How the hell did you make such a mess already, anyway?" Zayn asks snidely.

"Early move-in," Liam responds coldly. Thankfully he's pulled on a fresh(er) pair of athletic shorts but has apparently elected to remain shirtless. "Soccer camp started a week ago."

_So he's an _actual_ soccer player. Lovely. I'm stuck living with a jock cliche._

"Oh!" Zayn gasps, feeling particularly spiteful now. "So _that's_ how you got into college."

"FUCK YOU!" Liam bellows. "Yeah I got in on a soccer scholarship," he continues lowly. "A full ride, in fact. But while I'm the guy who is having fun, going to parties, and getting laid, you're going to be the lame-ass freak that no one wants to talk to. I know which I would rather be."

Zayn's blood boils. He's never felt like this before. Every fiber of his being is on fire. He can feel his face burning scarlet. He wants to body slam the cocky bastard. He wants to beat the hell out of him. To wipe that smug smile off his implausibly perfect face. To ruin those unnaturally good looks. Partly because he hates the fact that his newfound arch nemesis is so ridiculously attractive. But mostly because of how close to home that last jibe had hit. It was like Liam had invaded his soul and stolen his deepest fears.

Instead of doing something he'll regret, Zayn bites down on his bottom lip, flings his glasses onto his dresser, and climbs under his blankets with his back turned on Liam. He hears Liam loudly moving around the room and doing god-knows-what for another half hour before he flicks the light off and goes to bed himself. He tries his best not to think about how those beads of water had cascaded down the precarious contours of the athlete's chest. How low the towel had been riding on his hips. How that thin trail of hair dove down into a denser patch at the edge of the fabric. How his firm pecs had felt under his hands when he shoved him. But the images are burned into his brain and try as he might he can't shake them. The only thing he can do is think about what Liam said to him and let the attraction be overshadowed by seething anger. He sleeps fitfully that night, visions of greek gods and killer soccer balls filling his dreams.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading and let me know what you think!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3: King of New York

**So this chapter turned out to be a bit of a beast, but there really wasn't a good spot to split it up so here you go. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2: King of New York<strong>

* * *

><p>Zayn's alarm goes off at 6:00am just as planned. His eyes snap open and he's instantly up and gathering a towel, toiletries bag, and change of clothes. He's always been a morning person.<p>

"Wha'th'fuck…" comes the muffled yet clearly angry exclamation from the depths of Liam's tangled blankets. He has a pillow plastered over his face. He's apparently _not _a morning person.

"Ummmm…I'm getting ready to take a shower?" Zayn replies, bemused.

Liam surfaces from beneath the covers and glares at him groggily. His hair is a tangled mess and his eyes are red and puffy. He glances at the clock and then collapses onto his back with a groan.

"School doesn't start for two more days," he continues to grumble as Zayn makes his bed.

"Your point?"

"Why the hell are you getting up at the ass-crack of dawn?"

"You may be content to sleep your life away but I have more productive things to do," Zayn calls over his shoulder as he heads out into the hallway. He hears something that sounds suspiciously like a shoe hit the door behind him.

He takes a quick, hot shower to fully wake up and then dresses in the relative privacy of the bathroom. Today he's going with his usual black jeans and a black tee with the Green Lantern logo on the front. Then he pulls a gray NYU hoodie over top of it. He brushes, flosses and gargles and then heads back to the room.

Liam is snoring when he comes in. So naturally Zayn flips the light on and starts rummaging around, banging drawers and jangling his keys. Finally he grabs his wallet and violin, ignores the irritated growls coming from the other bed, and marches out the door slamming it behind him and leaving the light on just for kicks.

* * *

><p>Technically Zayn doesn't actually have anything productive planned for the day. Unless you count sight-seeing and wandering the streets of NYC to be productive. He figures he better enjoy his new home while he can, before school takes over his life.<p>

He carefully adjusts the strap of his violin on his shoulder and then sets off for the subway. He knows it's a little silly to be carrying the instrument around with him but he doesn't really like to be parted from it. Plus he really didn't want to leave it unsupervised back with Mr. Crankypants.

So maybe it isn't his most brilliant idea to go walking around the city by himself. But who would he go with? The only person he knows here is a douchebag. Not really a valid candidate for the buddy system. He's an observant person so he should be able to take care of himself and steer clear of sketchy situations. Just in case, he left his debit card and SSN back in his apartment and is only carrying a modest amount cash. So on the off chance he is mugged, he won't lose too much outside of his dignity.

Hopefully.

* * *

><p>First stop is Washington Square Park, which is only about a 15 minute walk from Founders Hall. In fact, most of the buildings around the park are owned and operated by NYU. The park is dominated by a large, central fountain and the monumental Washington Arch, reminiscent of the Arc de Triomphe on the Champs-Elysees in Paris. Figuring he will end up spending a lot of time there during school, he doesn't linger long.<p>

From the park he tracks the routes he will be taking to get to his music classes and rehearsals and then over to the Polytechnic School. Once confident he can find them in his sleep, he decides to hit up all the major touristy spots.

He ascends the Empire State Building and snaps some aerial shots of the famous skyline. He walks the length of the Brooklyn Bridge and back. He visits the Guggenheim Museum just to see the acclaimed architecture, not feeling like paying to get in. For lunch, he grabs an infamous NY hot dog from a street vendor.

From there he swings by Ground Zero to pay his respects. It is probably a bad judgement call on his part since he isn't handling it nearly as well as he thought he could. People are giving him sympathetic looks as silent tears slide down his cheeks. It's dumb, really. He didn't even lose anybody in the 9/11 attacks. Not directly anyway…

He wipes his face and hurries off before anymore bad memories surface.

He heads up to the Bronx Zoo and spends a few hours visiting his favorite animals as therapy. Feeling significantly better he skirts around Central Park and drops by the Lincoln Center, hoping to one day get the chance to perform there.

For his last destination, he catches a ferry ride over to Liberty Island to see the fair lady. He gazes up at the neoclassical behemoth in awe, her verdigris glowing in the sunlight. He's been up in the crown once before so he forgoes paying extra to do it again, content to just appreciate her from the ground.

He eventually checks the time and decides he should probably head back to his apartment and clean up for this evening. He is treating himself to _Phantom of the Opera_ on Broadway tonight and needs to change into nicer clothes.

He hops on a subway and rides back to the station nearest Founders Hall. He is just heading out of the tunnel when a sound floating over the crowd catches his attention. He stops and turns around towards the source. The familiar melodies of the Debussy sonata are drifting from around a corner. Against his better judgement, Zayn follows the music into a different section of the station.

Leaning against the tunnel wall a few dozen paces away is a man that Zayn would normally steer clear of. He is obviously homeless, wearing incredibly dirty, ripped up clothes. His hair is long and grimy and almost as unpleasant as his beard. His open mouth reveals black and broken teeth. At least the few that are there. A mangy little dog is curled up by his feet.

But most notable is the fact that the man is playing a violin. Debussy, no less. And he is _good. _His violin is in rough shape. The body is cracked and warped. Most of the horsehair from his bow is broken or frayed. It's a miracle he's getting any sound to come out of the instrument at all, let alone the beautiful music that is echoing around the vaulted space. A small crowd has gathered around him, some tossing some spare change into the ratty case laying open in front of him.

Zayn can only stare in disbelief as the man brings the piece to a close. Sparse clapping sounds from the audience, which draws more people over. The man adjusts a peg on the instrument, which judging from the state of the strings probably didn't do much good. He raises the violin up and, despite the conspicuous lack of a chin rest, begins to play again.

The song choice is so out of place that it takes Zayn several dumbfounded moments before he realizes that it's an improvised rendition of Ariana Grande's _Break Free_. Laughter rings out from the crowd as others pick up on it. A sudden impulse takes over Zayn's thoughts. It's crazy, really. But it's just so perfect.

_Fuck it…_he decides.

He sets his case down by the wall and unzips it, pulling out his own violin and bow. And then looks around. He starts to breathe a little faster when he notices all the people looking at him. Maybe this isn't such a good idea. He feels the familiar social panic start to set in. The man catches sight of him and gives him a rather toothless grin. Encouraged, Zayn tucks it under his chin and sets the bow to the strings. As soon as he coaxes the first note out of the instrument, his breathing calms. All his anxieties float away as he gets lost in the music. In his element. He's never really attempted improvisation before aside from some pitch matching and harmonizing lessons with his tutor, but he finds it comes pretty naturally to him. At first he just matches pitch as best he can with the guy, but then he raises the stakes by striking up harmonies. He even throws in some double stops for three part harmonies, and is somewhat surprised when the man follows suit and adds in a fourth.

At the second verse, the homeless man shifts gears and starts up a rapid, low ostinato that accurately imitates the background beat of the original song. Zayn takes the opportunity to open up a little, throwing in some acrobatic runs and octaves just for the hell of it and earning some cheers and whistles from the crowd. Then he picks up the bass line and the old man takes off with his own equally impressive bowing frenzy that plays off of Zayn's perfectly. At the bridge they join together and hurtle into a full-fledged hurricane of ad lib virtuosity, each of them doing their own thing and yet still weaving together a cohesive whole that somehow manages to preserve the chorus melody amidst all the chaos. It's a moment of pure magic. Zayn lets his eyes slide closed and he just feels the music permeate into the deepest parts of his being. It's one of the most incredible experiences of his life. And certainly the most fun he's ever had.

They have drawn quite the crowd by this point and pretty much continuous cheers are erupting around them. At the finale, the man races up into a loud, high, tremolo. Zayn plunges down to the lowest extreme of his instrument in double stops, bending from note to note, loving the feel of the strings sliding smoothly beneath his fingertips. Then he slides all the way up the string in one huge glissando to meet his partner's tremolo for several beats before they both hit a final, staccato note.

Raucous applause erupts from the crowd as the spectators whoop and holler and money pours into his case. The homeless guy is looking a little misty eyed as he claps Zayn on the back. Zayn would have recoiled had it been just five minutes earlier, but now he feels a close, unexplainable connection to the man. Then he pulls out his wallet and hands the guy a twenty. Sure it's probably more than he can afford to give away but it's the least he can do to repay the guy for basically making his life. Plus he clearly needs the money.

The man takes one look at the bill and immediately tries to hand it back, but Zayn forces his fingers closed around it and nods at him.

"Thank you," the man says. His voice is surprisingly warm and smooth and sincere.

"No problem, man. You're incredible," Zayn replies with a grin.

"_You_ are going to go places someday, kid. Remember me, will you? When you're up on a big, fancy stage one day. Play for the both of us." He sounds so wistful that Zayn gets a little choked up. It's been such an emotional roller coaster of a day.

"I sure will," he manages to get out. After a few moments of studying the guy he asks, "What's your name?"

The man looks sadly at him for a beat and then replies, "Marty's what my parents called me back when they were still around. But most people just call me "the subway guy" anymore."

Zayn bites his lip thoughtfully. "I think I like Marty better."

The man grins at that and nods again.

Zayn pauses hesitantly before adding, "I'm Zayn."

"Well, Zayn," Marty states excitedly. "It was an honor getting to play with you."

Zayn blushes and smiles at him. He accepts the praise without argument because he thinks he knows enough about Marty now to know that's what he wants. But he also has the distinct certainty that the real honor is all his own. Then he bends down to put his violin back in his case. The man's dog sneaks over and shyly sniffs at Zayn's hands.

"That's Flea," the man laughs heartily.

Zayn cautiously scratches the dog on top of the head, making his tail wag furiously. He inwardly cringes at the name and the feel of his greasy fur.

"He's cute," he lies anyway.

"Isn't he?" Marty gushes. "I don't know what I'd do without him."

Zayn smiles sadly and zips up his case before standing and bidding Marty farewell. It was such a strange experience, and yet Zayn is sure that it is something that's going to stick with him for the rest of his life.

He is about twenty yards away when he has a random thought. He takes another couple steps, debating whether it's good idea or not. But then he turns around and hurries back over to Marty who is packing up his meager belongings.

The man looks at him in bewilderment but Zayn just wordlessly sets his case back down and opens up a hidden side pocket that he rarely has reason to delve into. Inside is his spare bow. Actually it's not even really a spare. It's an old, cheaper bow that he used when he was younger. It still has a good set of horsehair on it. He runs his hand down the wood, nostalgia almost overwhelming him as he remembers the day his _dadee _gave this to him when he graduated from his "training" bow. He takes a deep breath and steels his resolve. He holds the bow out to Marty, who eyes it in disbelief. He shakes his head vehemently but Zayn just presses it into his hands.

"I don't use this one anymore," he assures him. Tears are actually falling from the guy's eyes now as he gingerly takes the thin object with trembling fingers. Zayn rummages into a different pocket and pulls out a chunk of rosin and hands that to him as well. It's relatively cheap so he can get more easily enough.

"Keep spicing up the subways," Zayn orders with a playful wink. And then he actually leaves, hoping that he gets to see Marty again sometime.

* * *

><p>He checks the time and lets out a quiet curse, breaking into a run down the street and into Founders Hall. He bounces impatiently on his feet in the elevator and then races into his apartment. Not even the sight of Liam and his thuggish friend from yesterday can wipe the exuberant smile off of his face.<p>

"Nerd Alert!" Liam proclaims loudly. Not to mention completely unnecessarily.

"_Obviously_ I am a nerd. Get over it," Zayn counters breathlessly, never dropping his huge grin. He's rather proud of himself for speaking up for once. Without stuttering or choking at all.

Liam's flunky guffaws stupidly. Zayn decides to refer to him as "Shrek" from now on. Paint him green and the resemblance really would be quite striking.

Zayn sets his violin down on his bed. Then notices the two delinquents eyeing it beadily. Struck with inspiration, he searches through his desk until he finds his old combination lock from his job at the library. He pops it open and slips it through the two zippers on his case so that it can't be opened and then stashes the whole thing in his wardrobe. He's reasonably certain they wouldn't go so far as to actually damage the case to get inside. Hopefully.

He grabs his dress clothes off their hanger and heads for the showers to briefly rinse off and change. He dons a pair of slate gray slacks, a blood red button-up shirt, with a black vest and skinny tie, and patent leather shoes. The clothes are tailored specifically for him from his audition so they cling to his lean form and make him look slimmer than usual. And for once he takes a few minutes to style his hair into a swooping quiff. He debates whether or not to shave but decides to leave the five o'clock shadow. He also foregoes his contacts and just leaves his glasses on, thinking they make him look slightly more mature and sophisticated.

When he reenters the room, the jackasses' conversation about the relative hotness of various college cheerleaders dies out.

"Going to prom are you?" Liam snarks. But Zayn notices the boy eyeing him up and down strangely.

He puts it out of his mind and opens his wardrobe one last time. His baby is still locked up and leaning against the side of the compartment at the same angle he had left it. He supposes he can leave it there and be reasonably safe. After all, he truly would look rather strange carrying it around a theater. If they would even let him bring it in.

He grabs his ticket, wallet, and keys from his desk and rushes out of the room amidst flying insults from his enemies. But today they just bounce right off. Today, thanks to a homeless guy named Marty, Zayn is bulletproof.

* * *

><p>"Oh…My…GOD!"<p>

Zayn flinches as the unexpected shriek nearly busts his eardrums. He's barely turned away from the merchandise table when he's assaulted by a diminutive Asian girl. She's about a foot shorter than him and wearing a tiny, black sleeveless dress. Her glossy black hair is streaked with purple and pulled back in a complicated knot. In a bit of a cliche, there are crossed chop sticks holding it all together. Before he can even gather his panicking thoughts she has ahold of his face, turning it side to side as if she's examining his pores.

"It's you!" she exclaims, still talking excessively loud. Several people are eyeing them warily now.

Zayn manages to extricate himself from her clutches and backpedals several steps, his heart pounding and his cheeks burning in embarrassment. He tries to stutter out that he doesn't have a clue what she's talking about but she just keeps jabbering right over him.

"The guy from the subway!" she squeals excitedly. An iPhone appears out of thin air in her hand and two seconds later a YouTube video is playing and she's shoving it in Zayn's face. He flinches away from her again. But then he's distracted by the sound coming out of the phone. Forgetting his discomfort he grabs the phone to get a better look. Sure enough the video is of his impromptu performance with Marty just a couple hours before. He stares in disbelief at the marker showing over a hundred views already.

"My friend Kat was there," she clarifies. "Recorded the whole thing, of course. Couldn't wait to put it on our Facebook page. Are you an NYU student? Please tell me you're an NYU student. Are you in the Symphony? You have to be. Oh god!" she gasps in horror. " You're not one of those Juilliard snobs, are you? Oh fuck. I'm sorry. That was rude. It really would be unfortunate though. You're not, right?"

Zayn is a little overwhelmed by how fast she is talking. Not to mention how intense her stare is, especially with her striking electric purple contacts and thick eyeliner. When he doesn't respond right away, her foot starts tapping impatiently. That's when he notices the ridiculous heels she's wearing, making her even tinier than he originally thought.

"Well?" she demands. "Do you speak English? Sprechen sie inglés?"

"Ummm…" Zayn mumbles. "Y-yeah. I mean…I am…in the…uh…"

"Excellent!" she proclaims, as if she's really talking to everyone in the entire lobby. "Violin, right?"

Before Zayn can even think to nod she's surging on ahead, "Well, obviously. Of course you're a violin. Silly me. I'm a double bass, of course. Second chair as a soph. Not too shabby, huh?" She elbows him playfully in the side as if they're old friends, Zayn flinching yet again.

He blinks rapidly, more confused than he can remember ever being in his life. For some reason he's fixated on the fact that a double bass has got to be at least three times the size of the slight girl in front of him. Thankfully the overhead lights start blinking to indicate the show's about to start, rescuing Zayn from further persecution.

Or so he thinks.

"Well…bye," he mumbles almost inaudibly before taking off as quickly as possible.

He doesn't make it far before his arm is caught in a vice-like grip.

"Are you here alone?" the overbearing girl asks as if he hadn't just tried to blatantly run away from her. "Me too," she continues without waiting for an answer as usual. "My friend bailed last minute for a _frat party_ of all things. So you're totally taking her seat."

Zayn can only splutter incoherently as he's dragged quite forcefully towards the theater.

"So I'm assuming you're a frosh? You're going to love it here. I promise. Especially the Symphony. It's such an…experience. On a totally spiritual level, you know? Is this your first Broadway show? How long have you been in the city? Which residence hall are you in?"

Zayn has yet to try to answer any of her questions, not that he could get a word in edgewise if he wanted to. Regardless she seems content to keep rapid firing one after the other. By this point they've reached her seat and apparently Zayn's new one. She plops down happily, dragging him down with her. She crosses her legs classily and looks over at him with a huge grin.

"We are going to get along SO well, I can already tell," she informs him adamantly. "I'm Vivian, by the way. But don't ever let me hear you call me that. I don't know _what _my moronic parents were thinking. I will totes kick your ass into the next millennium. And don't think I can't. Us short people are deceptively vicious."

From what he's seen so far, Zayn has no doubt about that.

"You _can _call me Vi, though. It's the best I can do unfortunately. I can't even use my middle name because it's even worse. _Cho. _I mean, seriously? I am a third generation American, for fuck's sake. Why do I need a Chinese name? I swear parents are so fucking clueless. Do you feel me?"

"Excuse me," hisses the elderly woman on the other side of Vi. "Watch your mouth young lady."

Vi whips her head around briefly with a sickly sweet, "So sorry ma'am," before turning back to Zayn with an epic eye roll that only someone with a lot of practice could ever manage.

"So I don't remember, what did you say your name was?"

"Z-z-zayn," he stutters back, not bothering to point out that she hadn't yet given him the opportunity to do so.

"Well Z-z-zayn," she mocks lightly, "I am so glad we had this chat."

_More like soliloquy, _Zayn thinks to himself. But he wouldn't dare say it out loud. Luckily, at that moment the lights dim and the opening auction scene begins, cutting off whatever else she is about to rattle on about.

* * *

><p>The show is fantastic of course. Norm Lewis is so refreshing as the Phantom. Dark and mysterious, he is perfect for the role. Though not his favorite, Jeremy Hays also turns in a solid performance as Raoul. But of course, the real star is Mary Michael Patterson. She is absolutely stunning. While maybe not quite reaching the sheer, unparalleled apotheosis of Sierra Boggess, she holds her own and turns in a brilliant performance by all accounts.<p>

As soon as the final scene fades to black Vi is on her feet cheering like she's at a football game a good five seconds before anyone else, earning a reproving glare from her more respectable neighbor and more than a few startled looks from other patrons. But true to what Zayn had learned of her so far, she doesn't seem to care what anyone else thinks of her. It's a little admiral to be honest. He wishes he had that kind of self-confidence sometimes.

As the cast returns to the stage for final bows, Vi's tireless energy just seems to build with each successive actor's bow. When Mary comes back out, she goes _nuts._ She actually jumps up on her chair, which does not seem wise in those wicked stilettos, sticks her fingers in her mouth, and looses one of those shrill whistles that everyone simultaneously hates and wishes they could do at the same time. She quite literally screams out a _bravissima _and then redoubles the whistling. Zayn stands beside her clapping politely with the rest of civilized society, trying his best to look like he's not associated with her.

* * *

><p>In the time it takes them to make it back outside, Vi has already said more than Zayn usually does in an entire day. It's a little tiring to be honest, trying to keep up with her.<p>

"That was amazing!" she squeals. "Wasn't that amazing? I mean, it wasn't Ramin-Karimloo-and-Sierra-Boggess amazing. But it was amazing. Gah! Did I mention this was my seventh time seeing this? Probably the second best I've seen, though it's so hard to judge. We have got to do this again sometime!"

Zayn is subtly trying to find the opportunity to slip away from her. He really is ready for a break.

"Well…it was…nice meeting you," he says warily, giving her a little half wave thing and nonchalantly taking a few steps in the opposite direction she is heading. Vi apparently has other plans though.

"Oh no you don't!" she snaps, marching after him far faster than should have been possible in those heels. She flashes him a wicked grin that Zayn's already associated with her getting her way. "We are going to go grab drinks, mister."

"Wh-what?" Zayn stutters out as she grabs his hand and starts to yank him back in the other direction. He tries to dig his heels into the sidewalk but she's surprisingly strong. "I'm n-not…Are _you_ even twenty-one yet?" he manages to get out as he stumbles along behind her.

"Please, please, please tell me you aren't _actually _that lame and you're just pretending?" Vi implores. When Zayn doesn't respond, she rolls her eyes melodramatically and somehow starts walking even faster. "This is New York City, Mr. Puritan. It's all about who you know."

* * *

><p>Vi had proceeded to drag a reluctant Zayn onto a bus and all the way over to the West Village, where they are now standing outside a pastel yellow building on 7th Street. The front facade is taken up by a row of six archways, each with a set of white French doors. Neon lights outline the arches and spell out "Duplex" over their heads.<p>

"Welcome to the greatest place in New York City," Vi announces, hooking her arm through his and leading him up to the door. Before she opens it, she turns and studies Zayn for moment, eyes running critically up and down his body. She chews on her lip thoughtfully for a moment and then reaches up and tugs on the knot of his tie until the loop is now hanging loosely around his neck. Then she deftly unhooks his top three buttons before he can swat her away. The flaps of his shirt fall open, allowing the top edge of his tat to peak out.

Vi gasps theatrically. "You have tattoos?" she squeals excitedly. Zayn flushes and tries to re-button his shirt but she whacks his hands away. "This is perfect," she gushes. She takes a step back and examines him closely one last time. Then grabs his arms, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing his sleeve of tats on his right arm. "Oh. My. God." she hisses. "Who _are _you?"

"Uhhhh…Zayn Malik?," Zayn replies dumbly.

Vi just giggles, artistically musses up his hair, and slips her arm back into his, letting him reluctantly open the door for her.

Zayn almost turns and runs straight back out the door.

"What is this place?" he wonders aloud, scarcely able to take it all in.

"This, Zayn Malik, is The Duplex," Vi responds happily.

The place is an absolute madhouse. The walls are painted a garish green. A huge bar takes up one side of the room, with what looks like any type of drink you could possibly want. There are people _everywhere. _A black guy is banging away at a baby grand in the back corner while a trio of waitresses in gaudy outfits belt out an impressive arrangement of Lady GaGa's _Born This Way _while they clear tables and serve drinks. Even as his chest tightens with anxiety, he can't help but smile widely. This place is like musical paradise. It's _perfect. _

"Come on!" Vi yells over the music. She leads him through the crowd of people up to the bar.

"Hey bitch!" she shouts at the bartender with his back turned towards them. He whips around, maybe a little flamboyantly. Just a little.

"Who you calling bitch, bitch?" he yells back, grinning. He is a thin guy, probably in his mid-twenties. He has a formidable wave of bleach blonde and pink hair on top of his head. His pale skin shimmers as if he bathes in glitter and he has more eyeliner on than Vi. "Isn't it past your bedtime, Vivian?" he taunts.

"Don't make me come over top of this bar again, Jonah," she warns dangerously. "Do you really want a repeat of last year?"

He just laughs warmly at her. Then he catches sight of Zayn. His grin grows even wider as his eyes drag lasciviously down his body, making Zayn blush deeply and shrink into himself. "And who exactly is this?" the bartender purrs playfully.

"_This _is Zayn Malik," she laughs with a wink. "He's starting with the Symphony this year. This is his first time in a bar," she stage-whispers conspiratorially.

Zayn's face burns even hotter as they both laugh at him, even though he knows they aren't being malicious.

"Well then," Jonah replies. "We'll just have to whip you up an extra-large AMF to celebrate the occasion."

"OMG Yes!" Vi squeals.

"A wh-what?" Zayn stutters, but they both cheerfully ignore him.

Jonah expertly mixes one thing after another into whatever he's cooking up, his every move tinged with a flare of showmanship. Finally he's pouring a bright, neon blue concoction into a giant fishbowl glass and setting it down in front of a baffled Zayn.

"This, my newfound friend, is an Adios Motherfucker. On the house," he announces brightly. Zayn stares at the loud drink dubiously. He's had glasses of wine at family functions, but he's certainly never tried anything like this.

"Well go on!" Vi laughs. When Zayn doesn't budge, she rolls her eyes, grabs the glass, and takes a giant gulp. "Mmmmmmm…" she sighs. "You're the best, Jonah."

"I try."

Vi pushes the oversized glass into Zayn's hands. "Come on you goofball," she teases.

Zayn stares down into the blue depths and cautiously raises the glass to his lips, taking a tiny sip. He starts choking almost immediately as the liquid burns all the way down his throat. Vi and Jonah both crack up laughing at him. Defiant, Zayn takes another bigger drink and forces it down, not able to mask his cringe. It's extremely sweet and not exactly bad, but it's far stronger than anything he's had before. It's like drinking liquid fire.

"Alright champ," Vi giggles. "Let's find a table."

As soon as they turn away from the bar, she freezes. "Oh _hell to the naw!"_ she cries in a freakishly good imitation of a black woman. Zayn follows her gaze to the barbie-ish looking girl that has just walked into the bar. Her bleached hair flows past her waist in luxurious curls. Her face is caked with makeup and she's dressed in a flashy pink tank top and miniskirt. Two similar girls are standing a step behind her.

"What's up babe?" Jonah questions.

"It's Valerie Holloway and her cronies," Vi growls. "She's a piccolo. And thinks she runs the world. I can't believe she's found this place."

"Well isn't this a surprise. Who let you out of your cage, Vivian?" the blonde jeers.

"Fuck off!_" _Vi shouts back at her, blushing furiously. Then she slips her arm around Zayn again, smirking as the girls' eyes widen comically when they notice him.

Suddenly Jonah is on their side of the bar. "I'll take care of this plastic little spastic," he whispers to them. Then he walks up to the invaders.

"Can I see some IDs, ladies?" he inquires officially.

Valerie gives him a blank, astonished stare. "You're joking, right?" she asks haughtily.

"Identification please," he repeats.

The girls huffily dig driver's licenses out of their purses and practically throw them at Jonah. He examines each of them in turn and hands them back.

"Sorry, ladies, but you have to be 21 to be in here. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Yeah right," Valerie scoffs. "Very funny."

"It's time for you to go," Jonah warns, his voice low.

"Fuck off, fag," the blonde snaps as they try to push past him.

Jonah whistles loudly and yells across the room, "Yo, Travis!"

Travis happens to be a massive black brute dressed in a pinstripe suit like some mafia bigwig, with long dreads cascading down his back, a pair of large black shades, and a kingly collection of gold chains around his neck. He wades through the sea of people, the crowd parting around him like he's Moses or something.

"What's happenin'?" he asks in a deep bass rumble.

"We have some minors who refuse to leave," Jonah indicates the three divas, who are watching Travis nervously.

"Alright, let's go ladies," he growls, pushing them towards the door.

"Wait!" Valerie shrieks. "You can't do this! Do you have any idea who my father is? He is going to have your job, you fucking ingrate! And what about them? They aren't old enough either."

But nobody is paying her any attention. Travis simply shoves them out the door and then stands in front of it with his massive arms crossed, ensuring that they don't try to sneak back in.

"Well that should keep them away," Jonah chuckles.

"See? It's all about who you know," Vi quips with a wink. "There!" she cries out suddenly, pointing out a table whose occupants are getting up. She rushes over with Zayn in tow. He blushes as the girls who are leaving ogle him, giggling.

"Wh-why do people keep looking at me like I'm a piece of meat?" he asks Vi nervously as they sit down. He subconsciously takes another gulp of his AMF, just to have something to do. He barely even notices the burn anymore.

"Seriously?" Vi asks, eyebrows raised skeptically.

"What?" he snaps back, fidgeting self-consciously.

She lets out an amused little chuckle. "Has no one ever told you how extraordinarily fucking gorgeous you are? You cannot be that oblivious."

Zayn blushes hard at that, looking down into his lap shyly. Vi blinks in astonishment.

"Oh my god. You seriously have no idea?"

"Stop!" Zayn urges. "You're crazy."

"Oh really?" she teases. "Well then you better not look behind you. Because that table of hot girls over there must all be nut jobs too."

Zayn cautiously looks over his shoulder and immediately regrets it, as there really are about half a dozen giggling girls staring directly at him.

"Not to mention those cougars over there," she continues, pointing into a back corner where a few middle-aged women raise their wine glasses up to him when he glances over.

"And that guy at the bar." Zayn nearly chokes on his drink when he sees the attractive stranger leering at him. His face is burning furiously now. He guzzles down half his drink in one go, desperate for something to calm his nerves.

"Face it," she laughs, stealing another drink. "You are a grade A, regulation hottie. Especially with those glasses. You look like a mysterious, tortured genius. Like someone mixed a mad scientist with Batman or something."

"God, stop it!" he pleads, sinking down into his seat and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

"You are one rare individual, Zayn Malik," she muses, chin resting in her hand. "I have never met a guy who was so acutely unaware of his own attractiveness."

Jonah collapses into the seat opposite them sipping on a blood red martini.

"Finally got a break," he sighs. "What's up?"

"I was just trying to convince Zayn of his inherent hotness," Vi replies, much to Zayn's abject horror. "It's not going so well."

"Oh honey," Jonah exclaims flamboyantly, while laying a hand on his arm and making him jump. "You are by far the sexiest guy in this joint. If you weren't so young I would take you home and ride you so hard you would…" he tapers off when he sees Zayn's look of alarm. He chuckles sympathetically. "You'll realize someday how much of a catch you are," he assures him. "And then you'll make someone incredibly lucky." He winks at the boy who is glowing red hot and yet still trying to disappear on the spot.

Zayn, already feeling light-headed and a little rebellious, drains the last of his drink in one chug. Vi and Jonah cheer him on, laughing when he spills a good portion of it down his front.

"Can I have another?" he asks shyly, liking the way it dampens his anxiety.

"Not tonight, Tiger," Jonah replies kindly. "That's gonna hit you soon and you're gonna be glad you didn't. Not to mention tomorrow morning."

Zayn doesn't quite understand but he doesn't really care. He feels warm and tingly all over and he finds that he's starting to enjoy the wild energy of the place.

"Oh!" Jonah gasps. "I forgot to tell you Vi! Guess who's performing tonight?"

"Who?" she asks excitedly. But Jonah's eyes have gone unfocused as he stares over her shoulder.

"Speak of the devil. Yo, J-Squared!" he calls out.

Vi whips around in her seat before shrieking, "Jeremy!"

They are both gone in a flash. Not wanting to be left alone, Zayn jumps up after them, nearly toppling over when his head realizes how much alcohol he's siphoned down. He stumbles after them as quickly as his uncoordinated feet can manage. Vi is hugging a brown-haired boy when he catches up to them. When she releases him and he gets a good look at the guy, he stops dead in his tracks, grabbing onto to Vi to keep from falling. She giggles and struggles to hold him upright.

Zayn can only stare dumbfounded at the vision in front of him. He thinks maybe he's drunk too much and is hallucinating. He probably looks like a fish with how his mouth is opening and closing.

"J…J…Jer-…J-J-J-," he stutters nervously.

The guy reaches a hand out, smiling amiably. "Hey man! Jeremy Jordan. Nice to meet you."

Zayn stares at his hand for a solid five seconds, in which the new guy's eyebrows shoot up and Vi elbows him hard in the ribs. Zayn shakes himself out of his trance and shakily takes the proffered hand.

"Z-zayn," he replies, barely audible over the noise. He forgets the part of a handshake where he's supposed to let go.

"I'm sorry!" Vi intervenes, a little exasperated as she physically pries Zayn's hand away from the other boy's. "My friend here is partaking in his first night of drinking."

"Ahhhh…Well you're holding up better than I did my first time," he sympathizes with a knowing wink. Zayn nearly faints on the spot.

This is Jeremy Jordan. THE Jeremy Jordan. Broadway's darling. Star of _Newsies _and _Bonnie & Clyde. _The guy who sang alongside Dolly Parton and Queen Latifah in the fabulously terrible _Joyful Noise. _One of the leads from the ill-fated TV show _Smash. _Soon to star opposite Anna Kendrick in the movie adaptation of Jason Robert Brown's cult-classic _The Last Five Years. _Not to mention, he's arguably the best male singer of this generation. If not of all time_. _And he's here. In the same bar as Zayn. Looking at him. Talking to him. Shaking his hand!

"Ladies and gentleman! Can I have your attention?" the piano man announces into the microphone.

"Oops. Gotta run!" Jeremy says, clapping Zayn on the shoulder before hurrying through the crowd up to the stage. The room erupts into cheers as more and more people catch sight of him.

"It is my pleasure to present to you tonight," the piano man continues. "Mister. Jeremy. JORDAN!"

The crowd goes nuts as the young actor takes the mic, and Zayn can't help but be swept up in the infectious enthusiasm.

"Thank you Billy!" Jeremy croons. "How're y'all doin' tonight?" he asks, evoking another round of cheers. "I'm Jeremy Jordan," he announces, the corner of his mouth curling up in this adorable little half-smile that has Zayn swooning. "Most of you probably have no idea who I am, do you?" he asks, earning a burst of laughter.

"Well anyway, if you really don't know, I was on a TV show called _SMASH," _he continues to another round of cheering. "And I was a season regular on season two. And I remember when I got my very first script for the first episode for the second season, and I'm sitting in bed reading it, and I'm scrolling through the first few pages and flipping through and, ok, wrapping up season one, blah, blah, blah. Wheres me? Wheres me? Wheres me? There you go! Page fifteen. Jimmy Collins! And I was so excited I got a scene with Katherine McPhee. I was, like, being charming and coy and awesome and kinda badass at the same time. Ok scenes over. Flip, flip, flip, flip. Geez! Come on!. Ahhh! And I'm startin' to get to the end and I'm like 'What the hell? Guys! I thought I was, like, going to be a big character. This sucks.' So finally I get to like the last few pages and I turn and ok, there I am again. Ok, so they're gonna finish out the episode with me. It's gonna be like some crazy cliffhanger or something. And I look at the last page, and it's just…it's just lyrics. I'm like, ok, so they're gonna end it with a song. Naturally, it's a musical television show. And I look at the top of the lyrics, and it says 'Jimmy'. A-And I-I-I realized in that moment that I was gonna get to sing the _closing song_ of my very first television episode ever. And it was the coolest, coolest experience…_ever. _Um…so I'm gonna sing it for you. It's called _Broadway, Here I Come." _

Louder cheers yet erupt from the crowd. Billy starts up the song on the piano. The performance is amazing of course. Zayn joins in with the wild cheering as Jeremy hits the insanely high note towards the end. His voice is like sin and sex and chocolate all rolled into one. Not many artists can sound even better live than on their recordings.

The rest of the show is just as incredible. He covers _Moving Too Fast _from his upcoming role in _The Last Five Years, Caught in the Storm _also from _SMASH, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Losing My Mind _from _Follies, _andeven a goofball rendition of _Let It Go _from Disney's _Frozen. _One of the waitresses joins him for two more songs from _SMASH. _And finally he ends the show with _Santa Fe, _his showstopping number from _Newsies. _Zayn is a little breathless as he whoops and yells with the rest of the ecstatic crowd.

* * *

><p>Zayn finds himself grinning like a lunatic for much of the rest of the night as they chat with Jeremy. He finds that the alcohol has loosened his tongue considerably and he joins in the conversations more than he normally would, for which Vi seems to be happy about. Jeremy convinces them to all take shots at the bar. He orders up a line of what he calls "Blowjob Shots", which makes Zayn blush ridiculously. The shots are a mix of Kahlua and Bailey's, topped with giant dollops of whipped cream. Jeremy counts down from three and they down them all at once. Zayn has to admit that the shot is delicious even though he gets whipped cream all over his face. He hurriedly tries to wipe it all off as the others laugh at him.<p>

Soon after, Jeremy has to head out so he can get up early for filming the next day, so they all decide to call it a night. Zayn is still a little unsteady on his feet, so Vi attempts to keep him upright as they walk to the subway. He accompanies her back to her own residence hall and then promises he'll be fine to make it back to Founders.

It's not too terribly far, so he decides to just walk the whole way instead of catching the subway. The night air is cool and refreshing and he sighs as he just takes in the altogether different feel of the city at night. That same frenetic energy is still there, pulsing under the surface, but it seems calmer almost. He thinks about all of the experiences he had had that day and he realizes that this could quite possibly qualify as the best day of his life.

He may have even made a friend, as unbelievable as that is. He had grown to enjoy Vi's quirky presence over the course of the night and thinks that maybe this year won't be so bad after all.

He takes a deep breath and just spreads his arms wide. The city is at his fingertips and he's never felt so much like part of something bigger than himself. For once in his life, he feels powerful. Like he can do anything. Like he's a king.

* * *

><p>Zayn is almost asleep on his feet as he pushes into his room at last. And of course Liam is still awake.<p>

"Where have you been?" the boy asks flippantly, appraising Zayn's tastefully disheveled appearance with an unreadable expression.

"Out," Zayn snaps, suddenly irritated for no legitimate reason. His inhibitions must be farther gone than he realized because he starts undressing right there in the room, his usual self-consciousness forgotten. First he kicks his shoes off and then yanks off the dress socks, leaving them wadded up on the floor. Then he tosses his vest into the corner, soon followed by his tie. He untucks his shirt and slowly fumbles with the remaining buttons. He is too groggy and light-headed to notice how Liam's eyes follow his hands, lingering a little too long on the exposed flesh. He slips the shirt off of his shoulders and lets it drop at his feet.

"What's with all the ink?" Liam scoffs, discretely tracing the lines of each design.

"Do you _have _to be talking right now?" Zayn demands softly, cringing at the wave of nausea washing over him.

Liam's eyes narrow suspiciously. "Are you drunk?" he half-laughs.

"Fuck off!" Zayn snaps as he drops his slacks, leaving himself in only a form-fitting pair of black briefs.

"Whatever," Liam mutters, definitely NOT checking out the bulge in Zayn's underwear.

Zayn collapses on his bed with a pained grunt, tugging the blankets over top of himself and almost instantly drifting off to sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Let me know what you thought! :D<strong>

**Note: In case you're a classical music freak like me, then I thought I would let you know that I've imagined Zayn's playing style and energy based upon the Moldovian violinist Patricia Kopatchinskaja. She is just so unique and fresh. With every performance, she not only brings an interpretation that is outside of the box, she basically destroys the box itself. Her playing is so frenetic and savage, unlike any other performer I've seen. And yet her passion, too, is almost unparalleled. She has been called the "most exciting violinist in the world" and I certainly agree whole-heartedly. I think projecting this onto Zayn really contrasts nicely with the rest of his character. It gives him an outlet to let fly all that anxiety and angst he bottles up.**

**Also for the Broadway nuts out there who aren't already aware, each of the songs Jeremy Jordan performed here can be found on YouTube. **


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